


My Kingdom for Your Graces

by inkrush81



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Jim Neiman doesn't get it, M/M, Post-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Unhealthy Relationships, burnt popcorn, for some reason there's a surprising amount of sex for one evening, i mean idk how that even happened, it's not a secret relationship, they just haven't told anybody yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:53:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5213570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkrush81/pseuds/inkrush81
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Movie night with Jim Neiman goes as well as can be expected, since Andrew and Fletcher have yet to tell Neiman senior they’re together <i>together</i>. Fletcher should have seen this coming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Kingdom for Your Graces

**Author's Note:**

> Title curtesy of the Years & Years’ song "Worship," a perfect song for Whiptrash if I’ve ever heard one. TW: homophobic and abelist slurs because Terrence Fletcher everyone! and also the briefest of brief mention of animal cruelty, but it’s only a mention as there are no actual animals in this story. Fletcher's got some pretty horrible analogies, what can I say?

Fletcher feels like he’s been conned into movie night with Jim Neiman. He would prefer to have nothing to do with Andrew’s father, despite essentially dating the kid. Fletcher would also prefer to not call it that, but for all practical purposes they are dating. 

He and Jim Neiman hadn’t gotten on from the beginning and at first it wasn’t hard to avoid him. But now Andrew keeps arranging these ‘accidental’ activities in which both Fletcher and Neiman senior are expected not only to attend, but interact congenially. Like tonight. Fletcher can’t remember why he and Andrew were even at the kid’s crap flat instead of his own, but sure enough around six thirty there was a knock on the door.

“Were you expecting someone?” Fletcher asks Andrew from the living room. 

“No, why?” Andrew yells back from the kitchen. He’s too wrapped in his own little world boxing leftover take-out, can’t hear the thumps on the door, and is apparently also too dumb to put together that Fletcher has a very specific and obvious reason to ask that question. Andrew amazes Fletcher with his stupidity sometimes. 

Whoever’s at the door knocks again and Neiman is still rummaging around. Fletcher sighs and stands. He really has to do everything for the kid. Fletcher opens the door to Jim Neiman standing in the hallway.

“What are you doing here?” Fletcher demands.

Neiman senior glares at him and raises the DVD rental he had in his hand. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Who is it?” Andrew calls coming down the hall from the kitchen, having finally decided to put two and two together. “Oh hi Dad.”

“Hey, Andrew,” Jim says in that stunned way of his. “I thought we agreed tonight was good?” 

Andrew says he’d forgot. They both look at the kid in askance. Likely story. 

“I don’t mind waiting if you want to finish up your practice,” Jim says, once they’ve moved out of the hallway and into the living room. Neiman senior lays it out as a suggestion but it could only be considered a thinly veiled request for Fletcher to get out as soon as possible. 

“I hate that I made you come all the way over here for a rushed meeting,” Andrew frowns, turning to Fletcher and completely disregarding Jim’s suggestion. Then the kid brightens up with a sudden epiphany, “Why don’t you join us for the movie?”

Andrew manages to keep his tone innocuous, like he hadn’t been planning this from the very second he’d somehow wrangled Fletcher to come back to his tonight. He’s gotta hand it to him. Andrew gives it just enough to make it sound genuine. But he knows better. 

“You know a movie does sound pretty good right now,” Fletcher says after a moment of carefully put upon consideration. 

“Great,”Andrew practically bounces on his toes, entirely ignoring his father’s presence at this point. “I’ll heat us up some popcorn.”

As Fletcher goes to sit in the room’s only armchair, he catches Neiman senior’s full on glare at his response, and wonders as he settles in for two hours of general uncomfortableness if the payoff will be worth it. It generally was. None of this was new territory. It was obvious Jim Neiman did not understand Terrence Fletcher’s continued and increasing presence in Andrew’s life. But then they hadn’t told him that they’d been fucking since that glorious night at Carnegie.

Whether they should tell Neiman senior had always been a point of contention between the two of them. They’d argued over it too many times to count. Fletcher had wanted to just let the old man find out how he did and have that be that. In other words not tell him at all. But Neiman wanted them both to take Jim out to drinks, or god forbid dinner, and tell him in a controlled environment and with prepared statements and _persuasions_ ; because Andrew’s fairly sure his dad will protest. Fletcher knows he will.

Their compromise, if it could be called that, was nights like these with Andrew trying to get them to warm up to each other. Fletcher calls it waffling and being a chicken-shit, but he’s not gonna complain if he doesn’t have to deal with explaining all the hows and whys of _them_ to Neiman senior. 

About an hour into some black and white French classic, Fletcher’s only too happy to step out to take a phone call. Once it’s over he lingers in Andrew’s bedroom. He wasn’t bored, per se, but there were better ways they could spend their time, than watch a rich man tinker with his contraptions while an aviator tried to steal away his wife.

 

 

 

_Between the three of them, they’d gone through the bag of popcorn in record time. The salt from the few handfuls he’d had left him feeling more dehydrated than usual and Andrew was draining a glass of water at the sink while a fresh bag popped in the microwave. He feels like he should be surprised when Fletcher pushes him forward into the lip of the sink, his body slotting against Andrew’s back, his hands gripping Andrew’s hips into the hard edge of the counter. They’ve fucked like this before. Andrew would be lying if he said he didn’t want that now. He feels like he should be surprised by Fletcher’s appearance but it’s been a year and a half since they met and he’s really not. He’d never been able to sneak up on Andrew; a result of Andrew being so absolutely focused on the man anytime he entered a room. Fletcher steals nearly all of his attention; disregarding what he was originally doing in favor of watching the other man’s every move. He’d feel cheated, if Fletcher wasn’t the exact same way about him. They’re obsessed with each other._

 

 

 

“Did he ask you why I’m here again?” Fletcher speaks into Neiman’s ear, lips brushing the shell. 

“Not in so many words,” Andrew says slightly strained, perhaps distracted by their proximity. Neiman might not be a teenager anymore, but that didn’t mean he still wasn’t a horny little cocksucker. Maybe giving Andrew a hard-on while his over-protective father sat in the next room wasn’t the best idea, but then again the kid should have just let Fletcher leave earlier. 

Fletcher knows he’s not the most likable guy, but it wasn’t hard to see that Neiman senior hated him. During the times they were stuck in the same room together, Fletcher wondered exactly why that was. Most of the parents of players he’d mentored hadn’t had such an adverse reaction to him. So long as the students gave it their all, typically their parents wouldn’t matter to Fletcher one way or another. Though he had been annoyed by the Casey’s apparent disapproval, but their hatred of him had been a great deal less quiet than Neiman senior’s. The thing was Fletcher wouldn’t care. He really didn’t like Jim Neiman either, but it was hard to pretend to be civil when Andrew kept pushing the matter. 

Fletcher doesn’t remember being anything but polite to the man, but Jim Neiman had been cold from the beginning. Fletcher assumed that it was something to do with the car crash. Neiman senior probably just couldn’t get over the fact that Andrew nearly killed himself trying to get to one of Studio’s competitions. Maybe it was the fact that the kid had been expelled right after. Or maybe it had been Andrew’s testimony against him.

That assumed Jim Neiman had nothing to do with Andrew testifying against him in the first place. Fletcher always had a feeling that getting the details of how that all transpired might illuminate things. He’d had half a mind to try and beat it out of Andrew, but the kid never so much as gave an excuse in all of the months Fletcher berated him in Studio or since. Neiman just didn’t give excuses, even when he had what anyone else would consider a perfectly valid one. Like getting hit by a semi-truck. 

It wasn’t like Fletcher particularly cared that he’d been fired. What was done, was done and he had Andrew now. Neiman hadn’t trumped up the charges they’d brought against him. Fletcher had done and said all the things he’d been accused of. If the board at Shaffer felt that wasn’t the kind of behavior they wanted their faculty to display towards students, well they had been within their rights to fire him. And they had. He’s not gonna say he doesn’t resent their lack of vision but the ruling had been unanimous. 

However, he still had the distinct feeling that getting the details of the whole debacle could shed some light on Neiman senior’s attitude toward him.

“Is this what you wanted when you invited me to stay for this shit show?” Fletcher asks against Andrew’s neck, all hot breath before he dips down to Neiman’s shoulder and is all teeth. He can’t hear the film in the next room anymore over the sound of the popcorn. They don’t have too much time, but he knows that it won’t be long when Andrew’s like this; already rutting against his hand. His fingers deftly unbuckle Neiman’s jeans, then push them down. 

“No, I want you to fuck me after he leaves,” Andrew gasps and pushes his scrawny ass back into Fletcher’s crotch, as if he’s trying to entice the man to fuck him right there now. 

“Neiman, you sick fuck,” he hisses in Andrew’s ear, pumping his cock hard and fast. Andrew just chokes back a moan. Fletcher knows that if Andrew were facing him while he was doing this, Neiman would have muffled his sounds by biting Fletcher’s shoulder. 

He is suddenly bereaved of the fact that he can’t see Neiman come apart under his hands. Fletcher finds the sight deeply compelling. Andrew’s drumming rivals and overtakes every sound he makes during sex (the few exceptions Fletcher often finds drunk and when Andrew’s fucking him. So he hardly thinks that to be a fair assessment of quality). But it’s when Fletcher’s fucking him that is really the kid’s best look. Flush with pleasure and reminiscent to how blissed out he is when he gets into a drumming fervor. Andrew’s so open, so malleable and Fletcher is right there, still the one pushing him. It’s not something Fletcher would consider a privilege, but it’s close. He loves that he’s the only one who’s able to get Neiman like that.

Andrew’s close which is a good thing because there’s a distinct absence of rapid popping. The popcorn’s gonna start to burn soon and then what? Jim Neiman will walk in? Fletcher hates being interrupted when he’s with one of his students and would definitely prefer not to have to deal with any subsequent awkward explanation that would come of such an interruption.

When Andrew comes with a jerked shudder on the off-white cabinet, Fletcher continues to stroke him through it.

When the kid slumps against the counter, Fletcher goes to stop the microwave. He opens the steaming bag of only slightly burnt popcorn and dumps it into the empty bowl. Fletcher turns back and watches as Andrew, already having tucked himself back in, has a second glass of water. He looks less on edge and Fletcher wonders again why the kid had even suggested he and Jim Neiman spend any time together. It was a pretty pointless attempt to get them to be anything more than perfunctorily cordial at the best of times. 

Okay, Fletcher really doesn’t wonder. He knows why Andrew is so adamant they get along. The kid doesn’t have any friends. Fletcher is fairly certain Andrew never really did and the only time he spends with anyone, aside from him, is his dad. Fletcher can respect Jim Neiman’s position as a parent. He has to, in some way, as the man was such a formative influence on Andrew. Obviously, the kid didn’t come into the world a fully formed jazz hellion. Whatever made Neiman the way he was, a misanthropic arrogant little shit, could partially be blamed on Neiman senior. Jim Neiman had cultivated Andrew’s talent and love for drumming, while putting him through school like any good father. And then, in so many actions, had handed Andrew over to Fletcher to polish to shine. To bring Andrew’s talent to fruition.

However, what he could not accept was the way Neiman senior just let Andrew walk away from drumming after he was dismissed from Shaffer. The way he had failed to push him to try elsewhere. It spoke to the man’s character, in Fletcher’s opinion, the way he seemed to look at life once it got a little bit more challenging. Neither could he forgive Jim Neiman’s attempts to pry Andrew away from his dream. Even now a year and a half after Carnegie Jim Neiman still asked why fletcher is hovering over Andrew’s shoulder. He still stages what could only be considered interventions. Not that Fletcher really thought it had any affect on Andrew at this point. But the distraction of the arguments they tended to cause between them was something they could all do without, especially as it left Andrew even more pissy than usual and neither side had ever gained any quarter. 

Ultimately, It’s not hard to understand the kid wants the only two people in the world he spends time with to at least get along. 

Fletcher can be cordial. Because no matter what Jim Neiman says, Fletcher does not want Andrew all to himself. Why would he want to be Andrew’s only pillar of support? As if Fletcher doesn’t carry enough of Andrew’s emotional baggage as it is. He doesn’t need a shattered father-son relationship to top it all off. Besides Jim Neiman was more than just a father to Andrew; he was the closest thing the kid had ever had to a friend.

So he tries.

It’s not Fletcher’s fault that Andrew’s father is such an easy target of mockery. Why he tries is a mystery. Maybe it has something to do with the face Andrew makes whenever Fletcher turns his biting wit to Jim Neiman just to get a rise out of him. Maybe it’s the inexplicable spasm of something not unlike guilt that passes through him after each of the few times he and Neiman senior have sniped at each other. Fletcher doesn’t know how to handle it. For _some_ reason, Fletcher feels like he should at least try to make an effort, but it is an effort and it’s no small part of the reason why he avoids Jim Neiman. 

He’s staring, which wouldn’t particularly matter except for the fact that now Andrew has noticed. He looks amused, like he’s caught Fletcher out. He shoves the popcorn at Neiman and goes to get a sponge to wipe down the cabinet. But as he tries to pass, Andrew puts the bowl to the side and pulls Fletcher into a kiss. 

It’s milder than most of the ones they typically engage in. Fletcher doesn’t tolerate soppiness for anyone and Andrew hardly ever presses it. Their kisses happen in the midst of an argument as it transitions to them fucking or when they are just fucking and then it’s mostly tongue and teeth. This kiss is short, bordering on chaste for them. Andrew’s tongue snakes into Fletcher’s mouth as the kid’s grip on his clothes tightens. Still it’s Andrew who pulls away first and his teeth catch on Fletcher’s lip on their way out. He definitely doesn’t suppress a shiver. 

“What?” Fletcher demands. 

“Just thanks for this,” Neiman jerks his head in the direction of the living room, the corners of his mouth flicker up. Fletcher scowls. 

“Get the fuck out of here, you fucking fairy,” Fletcher sighs, long-sufferingly. Andrew just shakes his head taking the bowl through the kitchen door. Fletcher grabs the sponge. 

 

 

 

_Nearly all the relaxation that orgasm gave him left Andrew the moment he stepped into the living room to find his father had put the movie on pause. In spite of Andrew’s insistence that he would only miss five minutes of the film getting them a second bag, there was Jean Renoir frozen on the screen paused when he should have been running interference between his friend, his other friend, and his other friend’s husband with his dad appearing engrossed with his phone. Still Andrew is not one hundred percent certain that what he and Fletcher had been doing in the kitchen wasn’t audible in the next room. He settles next to his dad saying, “You didn’t have to pause it.” Jim looks up at him then, shrugging and taking a handful of the fresh popcorn. He murmurs approval before pushing play on the remote. Andrew relaxes somewhat. His dad would have definitely said something if he’d heard what had really been going on in the kitchen. Definitely._

 

 

 

Fletcher rejoins the film twenty minutes before it’s over. There’s still some uneaten popcorn in the bowl on the coffee table. Fletcher wouldn’t doubt it’s the mostly burnt ones, picked over and deemed unworthy. It makes him wonder what Jim Neiman is thinking. He can feel the man glance over at him every few minutes and if he were anyone else, if they were anywhere else, Fletcher would definitely have something to say about it. 

But this is Andrew’s dad and the kid is trying to make them get along, as hopeless a task as that is. Andrew places a lot of value in what Jim Neiman thinks, despite whatever he says. Not as much as he does with Fletcher’s, but it still mattered to him. 

The first time Fletcher had met Andrew’s dad was the night of Neiman’s performance at Carnegie. Because it was Andrew’s performance. Fletcher and the rest of the JVC band were barely a blip on the audience’s radar after that solo, which was fine with Fletcher. 

He had wanted to humiliate Andrew so badly that the kid would be ostracized from the jazz community for the rest of his life. So that he wouldn’t be able to look at a kit without feeling disgust. He’d tried to push Neiman out with that chart stunt, but had only been rewarded ten-fold. Every student he’d pushed too far, beyond their love of jazz, had been worth it when Andrew’s talent shown through in those moments. Fletcher hadn’t been able to keep his eyes or fingers off the kid for long after. 

A lot of the contemporary jazz game was networking and nearly everyone in the crowd wanted to speak with the kid who did the amazing solo. It fell to Fletcher to introduce the boy who stole the show and steer Neiman to the right people to connect with. Throughout it all though Fletcher kept a proprietary hand at the back of Andrew’s neck.

They were eventually found by the kid’s dad. Of course, Fletcher had some idea of the kind of man Jim Neiman was from how Andrew had talked about him that first day of practice in Studio and his assumed involvement in Andrew’s testimony. But they hadn’t met, not at any of the competitions the Studio Band had played in or otherwise. Normally Fletcher wouldn’t give a shit. Occasionally, other players would introduce family to him after major performances, from what he could tell it was generally at the parent’s behest, but rarely did he seek them out. He had been eager to meet Sean’s parents and a couple others, but really most players weren’t worth the time. Andrew’s dad, though, he had been curious about. 

When they’d been properly introduced, Jim Neiman had been distant and shaken. Perhaps from seeing for the first time the result of all of Andrew and Fletcher’s hard work. Jim had grasped Fletcher’s hand with no concealed reluctance and Fletcher almost had to laugh at it all. He’d been right in his estimate of the man. 

Jim Neiman had no idea that his son could very well be the best drummer of his generation. He was too blinded by notions which plagued most parents. Not the notions that their children were the gifted ones, the special ones; but the ones concerning danger. It seemed to be the desire of every parent to protect their child from the horrors of the ‘real world.’ Fletcher didn’t understand the impulse. Maybe it was because he didn’t raise his daughter as a single parent, or even at all past the age of four; maybe it was just him, but Fletcher never saw the need to protect anyone from the hard truths. 

Fletcher could only understand that mentality to a point. If Andrew weren’t who he was, if he were say Sean Casey, who Fletcher had pushed and pushed and in the end who had crumpled like a poorly engineered house of cards; who was ultimately discouraged, then Fletcher could understand that desire to shield. Then he could see Jim Neiman’s desire to protect Andrew from him. Except Neiman had proved himself not to be one of the Sean Caseys of this world, but one of the Charlie Parkers. He’d proven his drive with that solo. Whether Andrew could weather the storm that would follow was a different story. 

But the fact of the matter was Andrew needed to be pushed to be great.

That night at Carnegie Jim Neiman had kept asking Andrew if he was alright, which Fletcher found utterly bizarre. The kid was clearly ecstatic. His confidence swelled so big, Fletcher wouldn’t have been surprised if he burst. It would have served him right, frankly.

The kid’s father had been eager to take Andrew home, but Neiman was insistent that he wanted to celebrate the evening with the band. Which was to say he wanted to celebrate with Fletcher. In fact, he was pretty sure the kid didn’t know the name of any of the other JVC players, with the exception of the bassist. Eventually, Andrew’s dad had left them alone and celebrate they did; after Fletcher had taken Andrew around and introduced him to all the people worth knowing, they went back to Fletcher’s for a night cap. Naturally they’d fucked. It seemed inevitable after the fact. Fletcher couldn’t dig his hooks into the kid deeper if he tried. 

Once the film’s over, Fletcher expects Neiman senior to head home before it gets too late for a weeknight. 

Andrew’s dad doesn’t rush off though. The kid stands, turns on the lights, takes the DVD out of the player, and hovers near the door but Jim Neiman doesn’t take the hint. Blathering on about how good it was to get to spend some time with Andrew, great choice of film that week yada yada yada near bursting with this kind of nervous energy. 

Then he offers to buy him a drink before they call it a night. 

Jim Neiman makes the offer seem like he just can’t say ‘goodbye’ to his son quite yet. Fletcher wonders if Andrew sees this the way he does. Or if the kid was too distracted by familial bond to know this ploy for what it really was. Andrew honestly seems taken aback by the suggestion and he glances over at him, clearly caught between conflicting loyalties.

Fletcher stares balefully back. It seems like a desperate bid to get the kid alone.

“Uh, I don’t know...we have practice tomorrow morning. Isn’t it kind of late?” Andrew asks. In actuality it’s not that late, just past nine o’clock and they don’t have to be at practice till ten. Not that Jim Neiman needs to know that. 

But Andrew has always kept terrible hours and, by the imploring look his dad gives him in response, that _is_ something Jim Neiman does know. 

“Uh, don’t you have classes tomorrow?” Andrew tries lamely. 

“Come on!” Neiman senior says. “We haven’t seen each other nearly enough these last couple of months. I didn’t drive all the way into the city to just spend two hours watching a movie and not catch up with you at all.”

Fletcher tries not to glower too much as he watches Andrew’s resolve buckle and he gives in to his father’s ill advised scheme for the rest of their evening.

 

 

 

_His father is probably trying to get him alone. Give him that talk he wants to have every couple of months about how Andrew doesn’t have to spend so much time with Fletcher. That he doesn’t need him to be great. But after an evening of discordant silence between Fletcher and his dad, Andrew really just needs Fletcher to fuck him. There’s no good way to have Fletcher not come to drinks but still be around for sex later without giving away what he and Fletcher have going on. It’s not something that he particularly wants to keep from his dad. He just has no good idea how to tell him without giving his father a heart attack. Honestly Andrew dreads his reaction and he knows that Fletcher will be no help with the emotional fallout._

 

 

 

Jim Neiman apparently didn’t have any particular bar in mind when he suggested it. So it falls to Andrew to find where they are getting this drink, as if he’d know the area any better. Fletcher is gratified though when Andrew doesn’t take their usual left at the second light, which will take them to the only relatively decent jazz bar in Andrew’s neighborhood. He certainly didn’t need whatever this conversation with Andrew’s father was going to be tainting a perfectly good place to network and scout talent. 

Apparently Andrew feels the same way, as he takes them to a currently quiet pub a few blocks over. It has some pejoratively Irish mascot on the sign hanging above the door. Andrew’s never taken Fletcher here before and stepping inside, it’s little wonder why. It’s the kind of place none of them would be caught dead in otherwise, where students would come to spend their beer money and watch the Sunday game with friends. Andrew could possibly pass himself off as having been here before, if he had an interest in either of those things. Fletcher imagines this is some sort of placation to his father; as if drumming wasn’t his life. 

He’s also pretty sure that this wasn’t what Neiman senior had in mind when he offered to take them for a drink, but it’s not a game night and there are only a few other murmuring groups of patrons, so it will work fine for all that catching up Jim wants to do.

Once they’ve ordered their drinks from the bar, they settle in a booth in a dim corner. The place may have been a cheap parody of itself, but at least they had good whiskey, so Fletcher isn’t complaining. Andrew and his father get beer; a Guinness and a Hef, respectively. Jim starts out the conversation, saying that he does like a good whiskey himself sometimes, but he has to drive home. It’s a testament to how long Jim is planning to drag this out tonight that he’s getting a drink at all. Then he asks Fletcher “Are you going to be okay to drive?”

“I took a taxi over,” Fletcher replies easily. It’s a bit of a non-answer but not a lie.

The conversation from then on is stilted and largely driven by Andrew, despite Jim having been the one who insisted they didn’t spend enough time together. Fletcher would feel bad but then Neiman is a grown-up. He could have told his father off if he really wanted to avoid this awkwardness. 

Technically, Fletcher himself could have just left. It wasn’t like Neiman senior’s offer for drinks had even extended to him in the first place. The only reason he hasn’t been asked to leave is because Andrew clearly wants him there and Jim Neiman is too polite.

Fletcher’d been ready to call the night a wash when they’d spilled out of the apartment building. But before he’d even stepped out on to the street to hail a cab, Andrew had asked Fletcher to tell his dad about the new festival that he’d arranged for them to play in. Fletcher started describing the event and watched as Andrew then proceeded to _walk away_ with his dad beside him. It took Fletcher a moment to fall in step with them too and by the time he was done explaining the setlist and who would be there, Andrew had led them to this dive. 

He probably _should_ have just politely called it a night, but Fletcher never claimed to be anything but petty. Andrew had all but begged him to fuck him later that night and Fletcher wasn’t going to let Jim Neiman cock block him, even if he had to wade through an evening of awkward silences and hard looks. 

On second thought, now they were talking about the new chapter of Jim’s novel and honestly nothing was worth this torture. Andrew is looking less and less like a cute puppy dog you want to smile at you with it’s huge doe eyes and more like that mangy stray you gave scraps to one time when you were feeling a little too generous and now it won’t leave you alone no matter how many times you kick it. 

Fletcher’s going to make Neiman pay for putting him through this shit. He catches Andrew’s eye and gives him a look that tells him just that. The kid calmly turns back to his father, taking a large gulp of beer. 

Andrew will switch between having a conversation with his dad to having one with Fletcher, because Fletcher and Jim don’t really have anything in common aside from Andrew and apparently whiskey. But it’s mostly just Neiman senior and Andrew talking. 

Fletcher’s contribution is mainly an occasional wildly sarcastic comment. He’ll end up making a biting rejoinder or a snide remark about the bar’s other patrons and Andrew will giggle, chuckle, or outright laugh. It wasn’t the surprised delighted laughter of what Fletcher would grudgingly call their first date all those many months ago when he’d caught Andrew listening to him play at Nowell’s. It was no longer cautious but assured and familiar. Honestly, he’s glad they have a similar sense of humor, otherwise their arrangement probably wouldn’t work out as well. 

Somehow it’s Andrew who gets up to get them all a repair from the bar. Since Andrew’s just recently turned twenty-one his dad thinks the kid gets a thrill from being able to legally order alcohol. Jim hands Andrew some twenties and Fletcher watches as the kid weaves his way around the drunken former frat boys at the pool table and sidles up to the bar. When Andrew finally gets the attention of the bartender, Fletcher turns back to the table. Jim Neiman has been watching him watch Andrew. His stare is hard but Fletcher can read the confusion under it. Fletcher holds the other man’s gaze because he’ll be damned if he looks away from Jim Neiman first. 

They had never got on a first name basis with each other. He was Fletcher to most people or Terence Fletcher. Just Terence to maybe five others including his long dead parents and his ex-wife. But more importantly he didn’t want to be on a first name basis with Jim Neiman.

They’d only been alone together once by either of their own volitions before. That had been all on Jim Neiman. Fletcher had been in his office at the JVC and Andrew had been out at some recording. The kid had been really excited about it and with good reason. Like Fletcher had told him time and again, half of the jazz scene was all about who you knew. Andrew needed to cultivate his network and Fletcher was putting him in touch with the right people. This recording was an important step, even if he was playing back-up to EMC’s sax player of the week. He was making those connections.

It had been that afternoon that Jim Neiman chose to confront Fletcher about his concerns regarding his and Andrew’s relationship. Fletcher thinks it was because he wanted to avoid including Andrew in the conversation. Or it could have just as easily been that Jim had just gotten off work and it was easier to find Fletcher’s office, rather than his home. 

There had been a knock at the door and he’d called for whoever to just come in.

“Mr. Fletcher,” Jim Neiman started, looking as grim as ever. And if Fletcher had known it was him at the door, he would have pretended not to be in. 

“Mr. Neiman,” Fletcher replied, slightly confused. “If you’re looking for Andrew, he’s at a recording session at Kaufman right now.”

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you,” Jim had said. 

“Oh?”

“I want you to fire my son from your band.”

“What?”

“I need you to kick Andrew out of your band,” Neiman senior repeated, as if Fletcher hadn’t heard him. As if such a request made any sort of sense. 

“Why would I do that?” Fletcher returned. He really couldn’t parse Jim Neiman’s motives here.

“He’s clearly not meeting your expectations,” Jim said like he’s rehearsed it. “He’s been under your instruction for about a year total right now and you still treat him like a first year making rookie mistakes. All I’m saying is maybe you should cut your losses and find a new player.” 

“Have you spoken to Andrew about this?” Fletcher asked, almost positive of the answer. Andrew doesn’t delegate. He makes no excuses. If this were coming from the kid he’d be here now. But there was no where Andrew would rather be than the core drummer in Fletcher’s band. There’s no way the kid knows his dad was here saying this. 

“He’ll be fine. There are other bands he could play with.”

The idea of Andrew playing in anyone else’s band is unthinkable. Not now, after all they’ve worked for.

“No.”

“Why not? If he’s such a disappointment to you that you have to resort to ....such abuse, why waste your time at all?”

“Andrew is not a disappointment. He may have moments where he’s _disappointing_ , but he’s not a disappointment,” 

“Then why do you treat him like one?”

“He needs to be pushed to be great.”

“Pushed? Is that what you call the harassment I’ve heard about?” Neiman senior demanded. Fletcher wondered exactly what Andrew had been telling his father. “Do you really think that’s going to make him a better drummer?”

Fletcher wanted to ask Jim Neiman if his son had ever tried as hard for anyone else before him. If he had ever been as good as he was now? The answer could only ever be ‘no.’ No conductor who had Andrew in their band and saw him practice the way Neiman did when Fletcher finally gave him a shot, if Andrew had ever tried that hard before, no conductor in their right mind would have let the kid go.

It was simple. The argument about whether Fletcher was pushing Andrew too hard would always be settled by the kid himself, because the fact of the matter was Fletcher never made Neiman do anything he didn’t want to. Pushing him too far was impossible. But whether Neiman senior could understand that was another story. 

Instead, he remembered telling Jim Neiman, having not quite lost his patience, but getting close, “your son could be one of the world’s greatest drummers.”

“Alright,” Jim said dubiously, his tone belaying he didn’t think Fletcher believed what he had just said. “That explains why you train with him....but not why he wants to play for you.” 

“Again, that’s something you should probably ask Andrew,” Fletcher had said simply.

Jim had left in a huff. At the time, Fletcher had just been glad Jim Neiman hadn’t given him the ‘if you lay one more finger on my son’ talk. But in retrospect it may have been easier to get it out of the way and have everything in the open. Neiman senior was still glaring at him and Andrew still hadn’t come back from the bar.

“Do you spend this much time with all your players?” Neiman senior finally asks. “Why are you still here? I always wondered why it seemed Andrew didn’t have a life anymore, but now I see it’s because you never leave him alone!”

Fletcher thinks that’s the essence of denial if he’s ever heard it. Andrew has never had a life and that has nothing to do with Fletcher. He doesn’t have time for a life. Drumming is Andrew’s life. All he wants to have time for is practice and Fletcher. He practices, sleeps, practices, eats, practices with Fletcher, sleeps, practices, Fletcher fucks him, and he practices some more. He’s able to squeak in movie night with his father most every other week, if they don’t have an upcoming performance. Andrew simply doesn’t make time for other things or other people. He can be pretty good at pretending to be a normal person, but he’s fundamentally not and he can’t be bothered pretending to the point at which he will ever have ‘friends.’ His disdain and overall apathy for them is another thing he and Fletcher agree on.

In Fletcher’s opinion, how and who Andrew chooses to spend his time was of no concern to Jim Neiman. Andrew was a big kid. He could make his own decisions and mistakes. Fletcher doesn’t say any of this though. Instead he says,” 

“And are you always telling him he can be great without me because, even though you never found someone who would push you to be the best, you’re so successful at writing?”

Fletcher can just see the steam coming out of Neiman senior’s ears.

 

 

 

_Andrew comes back with their second round of drinks only to find his father actually glaring at Fletcher and the other man staring blithely back. Internally, Andrew sighs. His attempts to have them get along may not have been subtle, but he had liked to think they’d been making progress. But if he’d known they’d devolve to this while he was gone, he would have just sent Fletcher. Andrew would like to blame it all on him, but he knows his father is not quite trying either. Andrew delivers their drinks to the table with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary and segues the non-existent conversation to the last event Fletcher had taken him to. There’s a funny story in there somewhere and Andrew does a horrible job getting there on purpose. Just as predicted Fletcher jumps on the opportunity to correct Andrew. He interrupts him, going into full narrator mode with the gesticulating and monologuing. Andrew could have told the story right and his dad might have enjoyed it more, but the fact was Fletcher told it better and it gave Andrew the opportunity to watch the man’s hands. If he’s being honest, Andrew couldn’t look away even if he wanted to. He spent such a large portion of his time living by those hands, that even now when they weren’t practicing or on stage he watched them. Conductor’s fingers made for directing and getting his players to move exactly the right way. Getting Andrew to move exactly the right way. Regardless of Fletcher’s opinion of his chosen profession, Andrew knew that not just any idiot could keep people in tempo. He’d had some crappy conductors before and Andrew knew what to avoid. A bad conductor could make a good band sound like shit, but a good conductor was the flame moths were drawn to. Andrew had always been drawn to Fletcher’s hands. He always found it odd how they could at once be so graceful and yet capable of such carnage. Andrew refused to attribute the word beautiful to anything related to Fletcher, but for the man’s hands and the way they moved, he always considered making an exception._

 

 

 

Andrew’s goodbyes to his dad tend to be pretty stilted and awkward. Fletcher is sure that it’s entirely because of him, as the kid’s dad keeps glancing over like he doesn’t trust Fletcher enough to leave him alone with his son. Fletcher would find it hilarious if it wasn’t so blindly annoying. 

There are times when there’s just the right level of distrust in Neiman senior’s flat stare that make him think that maybe Jim knows, but then the man goes and says something completely inane proving he doesn’t know shit. Like just now when he asked Andrew if he would walk with him to the car lot he’d parked in a few blocks over. 

“Actually, we’re gonna go over the new setlist,” Andrew said gesturing to Fletcher and magic-ing several sheafs of music from his pocket. 

In his past forty years conducting, Fletcher had perfected the art of the dead-pan to the point where it’s become second nature. He really needs it right now. He’s not sure if he wants to burst out laughing or throttle Andrew. The fact that the kid actually had the foresight to shove some pages into his back pocket before locking his apartment reeks of shame. The whole evening does, in fact. 

There’s nothing particularly outlandish about the stages they’ve gone to keep the sexual aspect of their relationship a secret tonight. They’ve done stuff like this before. While Fletcher sees nothing shameful in anything he and Andrew do, it’s just easier for no one to know. However, tonight seems to have proven the contrary. Fletcher would honestly tell Jim Neiman right there then, if they weren’t just about to get rid of him. As it is Neiman senior looks crestfallen, merely offering a weak ‘well don’t stay out too late’ as his parting words right after he hugs Andrew for the final time and weaving his way to the door. 

Fletcher would like to say that he didn’t breathe a sigh of relief when he saw the man finally leave, but he did. He masks it by snatching the chart out of Neiman’s hand and starts examining it for the places he just knows Andrew will fuck up. 

He points them out and Andrew scribbles his usual notes above the measures. But they don’t dwell on it. They both really just want to be back in Andrew’s apartment. It takes all the four blocks to his flat for them to start arguing again. It’s mindless really. Andrew has grown a lot bolder from that sniveling first year and those first days of Studio under Fletcher’s tutelage and now he snipes back at Fletcher just as quick. 

“You’re such a bag of dicks!”

“Right,” Fletcher says, completely unimpressed with the insult. “This coming from the guy who took the last piece of pizza.”

“That was a week ago!” Andrew whines as he blazes the way up the stairs to his third floor flat. “And you know what, I apologized! How have you still not gotten over that?”

“You’re an ungrateful fuck.”

“Hey. Hey, I asked you if you wanted it!”

“No, what you did was interrupt me!”

“Well, if you don’t know your priorities, that’s not my problem,” Andrew says when they come to a stop at his door. He has this devious smirk plastered on his face as he looks at Fletcher over his shoulder, digging for his keys. It was the same look he’d get whenever the kid thought he’d did something clever. Fletcher just wants to wipe it off. 

“I’ve got my priorities straight,” Fletcher says. He spins Neiman and shoves him against the solid wood. One of the kid’s hands is still tangled in his pocket while the other scrambles along the jamb. Fletcher takes advantage of Andrew’s disorientation to grip Andrew’s jaw and angle his head towards him. Their eyes lock and Andrew’s lips part. He takes one of Fletcher’s fingers into his mouth and _sucks_. This is what Fletcher wants. This is what Neiman owes him for tonight. 

In the same moment as Fletcher rips his finger out of Andrew’s mouth, Neiman’s hands curl around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s rough, bordering on needy. But Fletcher couldn’t really bash the kid for that. Not without Neiman flicking it back in his face for being the same. It was ridiculous how much he wanted the scrawny pipsqueak sometimes. 

“Open the goddamn door, numb-nuts. Unless you want me to fuck you against it till it breaks down.”

Andrew has the gaul to laugh at that. Which was not exactly the response Fletcher had been aiming for, but it gets Neiman to finally take the keys out of his pocket, so he’s not too broken up about it.

A loud pointed cough causes them both to freeze. Fletcher, crowding Andrew against the door, has his back to the rest of the landing and can’t get a look at the voyeur without turning around. He has a sneaking suspicion he knows who the cough came from.

Neiman shifts incrementally so he could see around Fletcher. It was almost comical in a sick way to watch Andrew’s eyes widen with recognition. Fletcher sighs internally. He didn’t need to turn around to know that the cough came from Neiman’s father. Andrew glances up at Fletcher mouth set in a grim line. They share a resigned look.

“Dad,” Andrew says pushing Fletcher to the side. 

“Well, this explains why you weren’t worried about having to make it home,” Jim Neiman says to Fletcher. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you,” Jim Neiman says eyes flicking over to Fletcher and then back to Andrew, mercifully keeping them above crotch-level. “Alone.”

“About what?” Andrew asks, cautiously.

“About what?” Jim Neiman parrots. “Are you joking? Andrew, about what is going on between you and _him_!”

“Right,” Andrew scoffs. “because you’d know anything about it.”

“Don’t talk to me like that. I know more than you think,” Jim says sharply, before rounding on Fletcher, expression past sour. “And _you_. You should know better. What the fuck is wrong with you? He’s twenty-one!”

“Hey, don’t lay this at his feet!” Andrew cuts in before Fletcher can even start. “I can make my own decisions.”

“Honestly, Andrew? After what he did? Have you been brainwashed? Why would you go back to that? I asked you that after you accepted his offer for the JVC, after what he did to you... But if this is why-”

“It’s not why,” Andrew states. 

“Then you’re gonna have to explain this to me,” Jim says. “Because I don’t get it. He made- _makes_ your life a living hell. I mean are you sleeping with him to be in the band?”

Andrew’s mouth actually drops open. He’s standing there gaping like a fish. Fletcher can see him trying to form words but he eventually just stops and stares. Had it been anyone else asking Andrew if he was actually good enough, Fletcher included, the kid would have been down their throat in a second. Fletcher had seen it and experienced it first hand. But now Andrew just stands there shell-shocked. 

Fletcher however was in no such state. He may berate Andrew and constantly tell him he could be better, but someone else insinuating Neiman’s talent wasn’t enough, least of all the kid’s father, set him on edge. 

“You were at Carnegie Hall. Did you even hear him perform?” Fletcher asks. He knows the answer, but he wants Neiman Senior to think about what he heard.

“Of course!” Jim says indignantly. 

“Then why would you ask such a stupid fucking question?” Fletcher demands. Neiman senior bristles. Perhaps the expletive wouldn’t win him any points, but Fletcher really doesn’t care about trying anymore. “Andrew is in the band because he _deserves_ to be.”

“Well, he sure wouldn’t know it from the way you treat him!”

“I _know_ what I deserve,” Andrew says finally snapping out of his stupor. His tone hemming on being insufferable, if heard out of context. 

“So then what is this? You don’t really care for each other.”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious now I guess,” Andrew says, something not far from a smirk on his face. The insolent fuck.

“No, not really,” Jim says. “You two hate each other. How could _this_ even cross your minds?”

They shift uncomfortably. They'd never spelled it out. Never needed to. It had been obvious to Fletcher from the start and Neiman seemed to understand intuitively. To explain them to an outsider, would require also explaining the process of how a person became one of the Greats. 

Fletcher had told Andrew his father wouldn’t get it. Andrew had sighed and said that Jim Neiman would understand if he explained it right, but in subsequent versions of his “Dad, we’re dating” speech Andrew never elaborated on the why. It lacked all persuasion, almost as if he didn’t really care if he convinced his dad to get on board with them being together so long as he knew. 

“I just don’t understand,” Jim says again into the silence, turning to Fletcher. “How old even are you?”

“Not important,” Andrew grinds out.

“It is! What are you even thinking?”

“He’s a consenting adult,” Fletcher says rotely.

“Yeah, one who only just became the age to legally drink three weeks ago,” Jim fires back. Andrew’s head turns skyward from the force of his eye roll, as if the ceiling could help him explain _them_.

Fletcher shrugs. That point was pretty irrelevant to his argument.

“Did you know that he testified against you?” Jim says talking to Fletcher again. “It’s because of him you were fired from Shaffer.”

“Dad!” 

“Yeah,” Fletcher says in a tone that begets the question, ‘so what?’

Jim looks slightly taken aback, like he couldn’t have imagined that detail having been disclosed in all their time together. Regardless of how cowardly Jim thought his son was, the assumption that Fletcher would not have figured that one out was insulting. Almost as insulting as the thought that he was forcing himself on Andrew. Mostly because if anything, the kid came on to him first. But he knew explaining that to Jim Neiman wouldn’t go over well. 

“Look, I don’t know why you had to wait for me and this had to happen tonight,” Andrew said, glowering at his father. “But I wasn’t lying when I said we had practice tomorrow morning, and personally I would like to finish what you interrupted. So what do you have to say?”

“Can I at least speak to you alone? 

Andrew sighs but finishes opening the door for Fletcher. “I’ll only be a few,” Andrew says to him, his expression is cross between annoyed and apologetic. Fletcher only rolls his eyes, making a hands off gesture. He ducks passed him into the flat, but doesn’t go far. Neither does Andrew close the door. 

Andrew says nothing and Fletcher imagines him having just shrugged, indicating ‘say what you’re gonna say.’ Then he hears the sound of a couple footsteps. Jim must be standing close now.

“What are you doing with him like that? Have you lost your mind?” Jim starts, voice low. Andrew doesn’t say anything, but then Jim asks, “Does he still hit you?”

“What?” Andrew bristles.

“I may not have been there when you gave your testimony, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean I didn’t read it after. So I’ll ask you again, does he still hit you?

“No,” Andrew bites out. A total lie. Two days ago in practice Fletcher had smacked Andrew for dropping a note and a few nights before that the kid asked for it, literally, when they were in bed. Fletcher wished he knew if Jim Neiman could tell when his son was lying. 

“And all the emotional manipulation? The insults? The running you into the ground, chasing these unachievable expectations? I suppose that’s all still happening on a regular basis?”

Andrew doesn’t say anything. Denying any of that would be less believable as well as equally untrue. 

“Tell me this isn’t why you went back to him. We’ve been over this and you’ve never given me a straight answer. There are other mentors. Other conductors of repute. You could have even gone abroad after that performance at Carnegie. And yet you never considered it. This is why, isn’t it?”

Andrew’s silence must passed for ascent in Jim’s eyes, because he keeps going. 

“You stayed for him. After all he’s done to you?”

“I want to be one of the Greats, Dad, and I am going to be,” Andrew says. “Fletcher is a part of that.” 

Fletcher thinks that is a very vague explanation of what they are. Then again Andrew never, not once in all his prepared speeches, had ever been able to come up with a good definition of them for his father. He’s not sure Jim Neiman would even understand if he had.

Neiman senior doesn’t say anything to that. 

“So you better get used to it,” Andrew finishes. 

“He’s just using you for you’re talent and how that reflects on him.”

“And what do you think _I’m_ doing?”

“I don’t know....I don’t understand this,” Jim repeats for the billionth time. Fletcher actually has to roll his eyes. 

“That’s fine. I don’t expect you to,” Andrew responds evenly. 

“He doesn’t love you.”

“No,” Andrew chuckles. “Goodnight, Dad.”

“Andrew-” Jim exhales, before resignedly saying, “Just be careful.”

Fletcher steps away from the door once he hears the sounds of hugging. It’s not that he didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping. Andrew would be stupid to think Fletcher wouldn’t, but he likes to maintain the illusion that he isn’t obsessed with the kid.

He throws himself on the couch and stares up at the orange-yellow and shadowy patterns the streetlights cast on the ceiling. What he really needed right then was to listen to some good music. Part of the reason Fletcher tried not to spend too much time at the kid’s flat was because it was a crap hole. The other part was that Andrew didn’t have a stereo. He didn’t have a record player or a decent sized cd collection. Fletcher didn’t know how the kid could even consider himself a jazz musician, let alone a savant, with such a meager selection of the Greats and no sound system to hear them on. 

 

 

 

 _The weight of his father’s hug as he said goodbye felt like the same well intentioned but misguided comfort Jim had offered Andrew when he’d run off stage after_ Upswingin. _It wasn’t something he needed. Andrew was on the tract of success. He was going to be one of the greats and he had always thought his father knew that too. Andrew had heard once Jim insinuate the possibility that Fletcher had wanted him in studio and then the JVC band for reasons other than his talent. But at the time Andrew thought he might have merely been spitballing; so completely confused by why Andrew and Fletcher continued to obit each other even after all that had happened. It had never occurred to Andrew that his father might not actually think he was great enough. Jim Neiman had always said he believed in and supported Andrew unconditionally. So there had been no reason for Andrew to start questioning it then. But now with his father’s arms around him, Andrew wondered._

 

 

 

Fletcher heard Neiman close and bolt the door, followed by the rustling of him taking off his coat, toeing off his shoes, and shuffling into the living room. 

Andrew stepped into view above him with a sigh, “That was unpleasant.”

“You’re telling me?” Fletcher asks, eye brows raised. 

“Please, you’re not the one he was cross examining or asking if you’d been brain-washed,” Andrew grimaces, as he climbs on top of Fletcher.

Fletcher hums a non-committal noise, letting his hands run along Andrew’s thighs, coming to a stop at his hips. 

“Or if your fucking the conductor just to be in the band,” Andrew finishes, settling with a sigh. Fletcher’s not going to ask Neiman if he’s upset over his father’s lack of faith. The answer is obvious. How could he not be? “I honestly can’t decide if I’m embarrassed or disappointed.”

“And you can only pick one because your brain’s too small to hold both emotions at the same time?” Fletcher asks, only half interested in Andrew’s train of thought. Sometimes he wondered how Neiman’s brain worked, other times he just didn’t give a fuck. 

“Oh, definitely,” the kid rolls his eyes and plants a series of kisses along Fletcher’s jaw. “But if I know what I’m feeling, then I’ll know what I need to do about it.”

“Did you know how to feel that first day of practice?” Fletcher asks, the qualifier of ‘Studio Band’ left off. Both of them knew what he was referring to. 

“Yeah, the desire to prove you wrong,” Andrew grins, backlit with the yellow light from outside illuminating some of the curls in his hair. “Also to prove you right for putting me in the band in the first place. You knew exactly what I’d do that night.”

“If you were who I wanted you to be, it would have been obvious,” Fletcher says, his thumbs finding their way under Andrew’s shirt, feeling the bare, warm skin. 

“This isn’t so obvious,” Andrew says with a sigh.

“Do you know which one I think you’re leaning towards?”

“Mhhmmm.”

“Disappointment.”

Andrew nods, resolute. Then he starts to grind his hips down on Fletcher’s. Neither of them were even half hard yet, but if the kid kept up this friction it wouldn’t be long. Andrew’s fingers curl into the fabric of his black tee shirt. 

“Make it up to me,” Andrew says, gaze intense despite being largely silhouetted. Fletcher was a firm believer in Neiman not needing to be coddled. But having the person he were closest to in life, ask if he was only in one of the world’s best jazz bands because he was letting the conductor fuck him; well, that was a pretty low blow. Fletcher’d had to jump in to defend Andrew to _his father _. He should have known his points would have fallen on Jim’s deaf ears and what nearly makes it worse is Andrew might have heard them. The way Andrew is looking at him now, Fletcher knows he did. It makes him tetchy and defensive.__

“What? You’re the one who wanted movie night-”

“Not that,” Andrew says low, eyes boring into Fletcher’s. It takes him a moment to work out what Andrew really means. To realize Andrew doesn't want him to compensate for Jim Neiman not understanding he's talent, but for the loss of his father that their dream will ultimately cost him. Fletcher understands now that Neiman won’t be able to stand next to his father and not think of how he questioned his talent; neither will Jim Neiman be able to hold a conversation with his son not urging him to leave Fletcher. Neiman won’t and he’ll resent Jim for asking. He’ll start avoiding his dad when he otherwise would have made time for him. They’ll grow more and more distant. It’s inevitable with someone as stubborn as Andrew. 

Really, if Andrew wanted a nice life with good familial relations, he picked the wrong dream. Being one of the Greats takes sacrifice. Fletcher’s half a mind to callously tell him so, but then Andrew is still here and even Fletcher can’t say something against the mourning of such a loss. Lord knows he did his fair share of moping when his wife left taking their daughter for that same reason, among others, all those years ago. 

“Make it up to me.”

Fletcher’s not religious. Never has been, not in the slightest. But the yellow light from the streetlamp outside catches in Andrew’s hair in a way that reminds him of one of those saints who have halos permanently a fixed to the back of their heads. The mere idea of comparing Neiman to a saint is ludicrous, but then what were saints but the practitioners of a certain way of life? Individuals adherent to strict principles and venerated for the rest of time for their sacrifice? Fletcher’s word is doctrine and if Neiman follows it, he _will_ go down in history. 

Fletcher thinks _okay_ , and pulls Andrew down for a kiss.

The kid’s grinding down on him and Fletcher’s fingers move from their place at the kid’s hips to the hem of his shirt. He grips at Andrew’s skin briefly before pulling the shirt up till Andrew gets the idea and takes it off the rest of the way. Then their kissing again until Neiman wants Fletcher’s shirt off.

He palms Andrew’s hard cock through his jeans and the kid gets his message as he then rips off of Fletcher to rid himself of his pants and boxers. Fletcher takes the momentary lapse in a lapful of horny twenty-something to reach into the side table for the bottle of lube.

Andrew takes it and slicks up a couple of his fingers, before reaching behind to work himself open. Andrew grunts at the intrusion, but soon starts rocking down again. Fletcher’s lips move to an exposed portion of Andrew’s neck. He nips at the skin. When Fletcher bites down, Andrew moans for real.

By the time he pulls away, the kid’s barely rocking on three fingers. He pulls them out and slicks up Fletcher’s cock. Andrew meets his gaze heavily after he’s positioned Fletcher just below his hole. Then unceremoniously, he sinks on to Fletcher. The action forces all of the breath out of his lungs and Fletcher knows that his grip is too tight on Andrew’s upper arm.

Andrew’s work on himself was quick and not the most thorough. It rarely is, when he does it, preferring to let the final stretch be Fletcher’s cock. The way he’s absolutely still now speaks to how the burn is just a little too much. Andrew actually enjoys it, but the seconds it takes for him to adjust is torture for Fletcher, which Neiman probably also enjoys. Still. He’s going to have to move sometime. 

“Andrew."

The kid hums, full as fuck and euphoric about it, like he doesn’t know exactly what Fletcher wants. 

“Fucking move, dolphin Pam,” Fletcher grits out.

“Impatient much?” Andrew snarks back, but when he meets Fletcher’s eyes, his pupils are blown wide. “Do it,” Andrew says voice low.

Fletcher narrows his eyes and slaps Andrew’s right cheek. The whole side of his face colors almost immediately with a flush that Fletcher can see even in the shadow.

“Again.”

Fletcher smacks the kid’s other cheek almost hard enough to leave spotted bruising. 

“Again.”

Fletcher likes hitting Andrew. The kid can be so infuriating sometimes, it’s like he’s trying to earn the punishment and frequently he deserves it. But he can’t have Andrew walking around with his face all black and blue. They’ve been over this. Andrew is not responsible enough to cover the bruises up all the time and even if he did he’d sweat through it. Fletcher cannot have Neiman waltz on stage every other show looking like he was fresh off a street brawl. 

“Again,” Andrew demands. When he doesn’t move, Neiman slaps him instead. Maybe Fletcher wants to hit him again just a little bit, but he also knows Neiman has the tendency to over extend himself. The kid wants what he wants and sometimes will bowl himself over trying to get it. It falls to Fletcher to show some restraint and establish boundaries, even if Andrew does deserve it. 

So instead Fletcher thrusts his hips up. The sudden movement rips a moan from Andrew. He feels _so_ good. Fletcher does it again. 

This time Andrew growls, pushing Fletcher into the couch. He lifts himself mostly off of Fletcher’s cock and slams back down, and continues till he’s set a pace. It’s fast and sure and completely not what Fletcher would have chose.

Fletcher lets his hands grasp Andrew’s hips. The kid is still in control of the rhythm, but he likes to be right there guiding Andrew and providing that extra pressure. Then Fletcher changes the angle at which Andrew is fucking down on his cock, so the hard flesh is dragging along his prostate with each thrust. Andrew moans and tries to squirm away, as if the pressure is too much, but Fletcher holds him to it. 

The new angle makes it easier for Andrew to lean forward and he begins sucking a mark at the seam of Fletcher’s neck. It will be just visible above the collar of his shirt tomorrow. For some reason, Neiman has it in his mind that Fletcher hates these markings. So he continues to do it, no doubt to annoy him. In actuality, Fletcher doesn’t really care much either way. If anything he’s touched that the kid cares enough to what? Mark his territory? Fletcher won’t pretend to understand what happens in what Neiman passes off as a brain.

He reaches between them and starts to stroke Andrew counter to what tempo the kid has established. Andrew makes a choked scoffing sound and pulls away from Fletcher’s neck so he can fuck him in earnest. With his eyes slid shut, lips parted, and head canted back at an angle, Fletcher can’t look away from him.

Andrew’s fucking himself on Fletcher’s cock with that goddamn halo of yellow light seeping through his hair and Fletcher is so fucking glad he found this nightmare, disaster of a boy. This blazing meteorite of jazz, who makes the years of searching and pushing beyond what’s expected of musicians all worth it. And unless Neiman royally fucks it up and dies within the next five years, his name is going down right next to Buddy Rich and Jo Jones as one of the greatest jazz drummers to ever live and Fletcher _will_ have helped put him there.

“My Bird.”

Andrew’s eyes flick open and meet Fletcher’s. It’s not an endearment he used often, preferring cocksucker, faggot, or asshole. They were all equally true, but it was rare Fletcher let that one slip out, even if they both already knew that Andrew was his one. He was his _only_ Charlie Parker.

__“My beautiful Bird,” Fletcher breathes._ _

__He knows his expression is filled with reverence, but Fletcher can’t help it. Andrew moves before he can register, crossing the space between them to crush Fletcher’s lips in a kiss. Andrew’s preferred method of kissing, when Fletcher allows it, is like he’s a dying man. Like he wants to eat him alive. like even when he’s fucking himself on Fletcher’s cock, his tongue in his mouth, and teeth nipping at his lips, Andrew will never be sated. Like Fletcher’s given him something and Andrew has no idea how to repay him, but he’s gonna try._ _

__When they finally pull apart to breathe, Fletcher can feel the pressure that’s been building in him about to peak. Neiman’s too close to focus on, but Fletcher suspects he’s the same. The noise of their ragged breathing and the sounds of slapping flesh is slowly being drowned out by a frenzied buzzing in his brain._ _

__Three more strokes and Andrew comes, moaning loud and wanton. The kid’s movement becomes staccato and he constricts around him. The warm tightness triggers Fletcher’s own climax.  
__

“Andrew,” Fletcher exhales sharply. 

__Andrew collapses on top of him, breathing heavily into Fletcher’s shoulder._ _

__It may take longer for Fletcher to catch his breath, but as soon as he does he prods Andrew up off his cock and down the hall to join him for a shower. There’s no way he’s going to sit around a sweaty disgusting version of himself with dead weight falling asleep on top of him._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I guess I like giving Jim Neiman a hard time, but no one’s giving him a hard time like Damien Chazelle. Those of you who have read the original script for the backstage moment at Carnegie between Andrew and his father know what I am talking about, because that was some cold shit. Check it out if you haven’t because his script is in some ways more vicious than what we see on screen! So taking a couple notes from that characterization of Andrew, I also really wanted to see an instance when Fletcher might call Andrew 'his Bird,' because while it sounds poetic....I just couldn’t really see it happening tbh. Anyways hope this is a believable instance! Bonus points to whoever knows what movie I had them watch!


End file.
